


In The House of Healing

by Earlgreyer



Series: Oh My Lord of the Rings [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Sibling teasing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, men kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28204437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earlgreyer/pseuds/Earlgreyer
Summary: The Battle of the Pelennor Fields is over.  Denethor II is dead.  Faramir and Éowyn are at death's door in the Houses of Healing and Aragorn and Éomer hurry to see what can be done.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: Oh My Lord of the Rings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066184
Comments: 18
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are parts of scenes which have been lifted from the book and slightly altered to fit into this story. The rest is my fault.

Éomer followed Aragorn through the Houses of Healing, moving through halls filled to the brim with injured and dying. The stench of unease and burned flesh was oppressive and tightened the icy grip of fear squeezing his insides like a relentless vice. Their strides were purposeful, heels striking hard against stone flags, though the pace was not nearly quick enough for Éomer’s liking. Frustration and anger surged through him. The two people he held most dear languished somewhere within these cold stone walls and he ached to be with them. Did Aragorn not care? Could he not sympathize? 

Éomer balled his hands into fists as he moved, and inhaled deeply, willing himself to calm. Such thoughts were unworthy. Aragorn cared. If he did not then he would not have entered the city to offer aid. Éomer shook his head to clear the anxiety, held his tongue, and silently prayed they were not too late. 

After what seemed like an age, they were ushered into a sickroom just off the main hall. Aragorn entered first, Éomer close on his heels. He had barely cleared the threshold when the air was stricken from his lungs like a horse kick to the chest, and the blood drained from his face. He grabbed the doorframe in an iron grip and willed himself to remain on his feet instead of falling to his knees as his legs threatened to buckle beneath him. _Faramir_. 

Images of smooth skin, unbelievably soft beneath his rough hands, pale and perfect in gentle moonlight, came unbidden, trying to blot out the dull, ashen countenance of the sweat-soaked man laying in the bed before him. For one very long moment Éomer feared they were too late, and stifled a sob by sheer force of will. 

Aragorn looked up from the bedside and his brows drew together. “I am sorry, Éomer, but I must see to Faramir first. I know you wish to see Éowyn, but she is less injured and able to wait. Faramir was stricken ill days ago and his need is more urgent.”

Part of him wanted to laugh at the misunderstanding, but cold dread dashed the thought away. “He yet lives?” Éomer sounded wounded, fearful, voice as small as he felt, and he didn’t care. His gaze bore into Aragorn, willing the words out of him that he wanted to hear, _needed_ to hear, with an all-consuming fierceness that had him shaking.

“He does.” Aragorn eyed him curiously. 

Éomer inhaled sharply, stifling a sob that wanted to wrench itself from his body. He stumbled forward and with a clatter of metal on stone, dropped to his knees at Faramir’s bedside. Tentatively, hand shaking like a leaf on the wind, he reached out and caressed Faramir’s brow, fingers lightly tracing the edges of his face. “He lives.” It was barely audible, though he had not intended to speak at all. “Faramir. Dearest Faramir, I am here.” Éomer gently picked up Faramir’s limp hand in his and pressed it to his own cheek. “Open your eyes, my heart. Look upon me yet again.”

He could sense Aragorn’s intense gaze on him but, to his credit, no questions followed. Instead, Aragorn turned to the healers, conducting a rapid conversation to which Éomer paid no heed. Gandalf swept into the room and began to bark orders. People rushed in and out, and still Éomer gave no notice. Every ounce of his attention was on Faramir. 

He could no more have followed the goings on at that moment than he could imagine leaving Faramir’s side. At some point someone suggested he do so, gripping his shoulder and urging him back from the bed. He had snarled like a feral animal and shook them off, eyes never leaving Faramir’s face. 

It was only when Aragorn held a shallow bowl of steaming water near Faramir, and whispered his name that Éomer glanced up. Aragorn murmured Faramir’s name again, instructing him to return from wherever he languished. As if following the command, color returned to Faramir’s face and his breathing eased. Éomer gripped Faramir’s hand more tightly and felt a lightness enter his heart as Faramir’s eyes fluttered open. He turned his beautiful grey eyes to Aragorn. “My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?”

Aragorn smiled at Faramir and handed the bowl of fragrant water to a healer. “Walk no more in the shadows, but awake! You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return.”

Faramir gave a slight nod. “I will, lord. For who would lie idle when the king has returned?”

Éomer stifled a sob and leaned forward, pressing his brow against Faramir’s hip and squeezing his hand tightly. He felt fingers lightly slip through his hair and let the tears flow. 

“Hush, my love. Do not weep, for surely you will break my heart.”

Faramir’s touch was sweet beyond measure, his voice, rough with disuse, a balm to Éomer’s weary spirit. Éomer slowly raised his tear-stained face to look into the soft grey eyes of the man he loved and could not bear to live without. “They are tears of joy, for you are returned to me.”

Faramir smiled softly, exhaustion plain on his face. “As are you to me. I have missed you, my love.”

Éomer nodded through the tears. “As I have missed you.”

A hand settled on his shoulder and Éomer looked up to see Aragorn, face full of understanding and apology. “My friend, allow the healers to do their work. Faramir needs rest, and there are others we should attend.”

Éomer glanced at Faramir who smiled and squeezed his hand lightly. “Go, my love. I am tired, and would sleep now.” Exhaustion seemed to overtake him. “Though it would please me to wake with you near.”

“I promise I shall be here when you open your eyes, if it is within my power.” Éomer stood and kissed the back of Faramir’s hand. There was a light squeeze followed by a gentle tug, and Éomer willingly went, free hand braced on the bed beside Faramir. He leaned in, and placed a single, soft kiss to his lips. “My love.” The words held all of the ache of his fear and relief that had been bottled inside his chest.

Faramir’s smile, though exhausted and fleeting, was a ray of sunshine in the darkened room, and soothed Éomer’s battered spirit. “I love you.” Faramir settled back into the pillows and sighed, eyes drifting closed. “With all my heart.”

Éomer watched him for another moment; saw his breathing even, the small smile still on his lips, only releasing Faramir’s hand at the gentle touch at his elbow. He turned to find Aragorn, a bittersweet smile on his face. “I must see Éowyn. Faramir will sleep for some time and when he wakes the healers will find you.” 

Aragorn looked to Loreth who nodded agreement. “Aye, milord, when he wakes we shall send word.”

Éomer nodded and fought against the rising dread as he recalled Éowyn’s limp body in his arms on the field of battle. “Yes, let us be quick.”

\---

Further along the same hall, in another private chamber, they found Éowyn, face pale and cold as the snow, features set in stoney solemnity. Aragorn spoke quietly with the healers who enumerated her physical injuries, then he turned, looking down on the sleeping patient. “She has been well tended, and should recover, if she yet has the will to do so.”

“What do you mean, my Lord?” Éomer cast a quizzical glance to Aragorn. 

Aragorn sighed and looked intently at Éomer. “When I first met her I perceived in her an unhappiness. She was lovely, a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, though hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel; fair to see, but stricken.” Aragorn squeezed Éomer’s arm briefly. “Her malady begins far back before this day, does it not, Éomer?”

Had it? The statement surprised Éomer. He had known Éowyn had feelings for Aragorn that had not been returned, and he knew, too, that Aragorn had told her so in kind but plain language. He did not hold Aragorn in anything but the highest regard for his kindness in that matter. There had also been much worry during the months that Wormtongue held sway over King Théoden. Éowyn’s heart had been heavy with care and dread, but surely this could not be the reason for her current state. He said as much to Aragorn and Gandalf. 

Gandalf shook his head. “Wormtongue had poisonous words for more than Théoden’s ears. Your sister, noble of spirit, strong, and brave, wise as any man, was forced to a lesser role purely because she was not fortunate enough to be born a son.”

Éomer considered his words in shocked silence, reviewing past encounters and his sister’s disappointments, and knew Gandalf spoke truly. He knew his sister _was_ equally as capable as he, in many ways more so, and yet he would become King of Rohan. Yes, he was firstborn, but should anything happen to him, she would not be made queen. She would be expected to be well pleased with a fine husband and giving him fine children, and _he_ would rule Rohan. As he looked down at his sister, he felt anger for the unfairness of it. 

Aragorn gazed down at Éowyn. “I have, maybe, the power to heal her body, and to recall her from the dark valley. But to what she will awake: hope, or forgetfulness, or despair, I do not know. And if to despair, then she will die, unless other healing comes which I cannot bring. Alas! for her deeds have set her among the queens of great renown.” He bent and placed a brotherly kiss to her brow. “Éowyn, Éomund's daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!”

Éomer, unsettled by the conversation, anxiously watched. Though she did not wake her breathing eased, and in doing so, allowed him to take a breath. With the help of the healers, Aragorn made another bowl of the sweet smelling liquid and held it before Éowyn. “Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!” He took her right hand in his. “Awake! The shadow is gone and all darkness is washed clean!” He stood and laid her hand in Éomer's, then stepped away. “Call her!” Aragorn passed silently from the chamber.

Hope and fear raged in Éomer’s chest, but he did as bidden. “Éowyn, Éowyn!” He rubbed her hand and sat on the edge of the bed.

Her eyes fluttered open and confusion passed across her face, quickly followed by a joy he had ached to see. He smiled back and kissed her hand. “Éomer! How come you here?”

“The battle is over. I entered the city with Aragorn, who came to tend to you.” He frowned and kissed her hand again. “Oh, Éowyn, I had thought you died on the field of battle, and my heart held such pain as I have never known.” He brushed a stray lock of hair from her brow and fought back tears of relief. “But you are returned to me, and my heart is glad.”

She squeezed his hand gently and smiled, but it quickly turned to a frown. “And what of the Lord of the Mark?”

Éomer shook his head, heart heavy once more. “Théoden died as he wished, in battle. He bade me say farewell. He lies now in great honour in the Citadel of Gondor.”

Éowyn nodded. “And what of the king's esquire, the Halfling? Éomer, you shall make him a knight of the Riddermark, for he is valiant!”

Gandalf spoke softly. “He lies nearby in this House, and I will follow Aragorn and go to him. Éomer shall stay here for a while. But do not speak yet of war or woe, until you are better. It gladdens me to see you wake again to health and hope, valiant a lady!” He gave a small inclination of his head and smiled before he stepped out of the room.

“Will you stay?” Éowyn smiled up at him, but there was worry on her face. “The war is not yet won.”

“It is not, and I will follow Aragorn into that final battle. But for now, I will spend what time I have with you, and…” He blushed and glanced in the direction of Faramir’s room, as if by will alone he could see through walls to his sleeping love.

Éowyn struggled to sit up and Éomer quickly helped her. “And?” She followed his gaze, her own holding a spark of life that had been sorely lacking. Éomer was too grateful to begrudge her question.

“Another, who was grievously wounded and lies but a few rooms away.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him, much the same expression he often used. “Another? Who is this other, brother mine?” She grinned impishly and leaned forward. “And why do you blush so prettily?”

His cheeks burned but he grinned ridiculously. “Éowyn…” He played with her fingers, uncharacteristically tongue-tied, heart pounding in his chest. He felt years younger than she, bumbling and searching for what to say.

“Oh, Éomer!” She pressed the fingers of her free hand to her mouth to hide her smile. “Can it be that even in these dark times you have found a bit of light?”

He chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. “Do not tease me, Éowyn, when I tell you.” There were moments he still marveled that Faramir returned his feelings. They had wasted so much time. “It has been a long, arduous, _foolish_ road, but somehow…” He looked at her and smiled sweetly. “Yes. I have found a light that fills my heart with such love as I never thought possible.”

She squeezed his hand and her eyes twinkled with mischief. “And who is this person who has made my brother so happy he blushes like a youth?”

Éomer took a breath and brought his eyes to hers. “It is Faramir.” 

“Faramir!” Éowyn took his hand between hers and squeezed them, joy radiating from her. “And does he return your feelings?” She laughed at his deepening blush. “I see that he does.” She grinned and settled back against her pillows. “I am happy for you, my brother.”

There was a wistfulness to her voice that pulled at his heart. “One day you will find someone to love, who loves you as you deserve.”

She nodded and sighed. “Yes. And if not, then you will find a suitable match for me, and I will help secure Rohan for the ages.” 

Some of the light had gone out of her eyes and her smile was less joyful, and Éomer’s heart ached. “Éowyn…” There was a soft knock at the door. “Enter.”

The door slowly swung inward and the nurse, Loreth, entered the room. “M’lord, Lord Faramir is awake.”

“Thank you.” Éomer’s heart pounded in his chest. 

They watched as Loreth closed the door behind her and Éomer felt a gentle nudge from Éowyn. “Go. Be with him.” Some of the brightness had returned to her eyes. “I am tired and would sleep for a bit.”

She did look tired, and Éomer very much wanted to see Faramir, so he allowed her to convince him to leave. “I shall return later after you have rested. Perhaps we can have supper together.”

“If I am awake.” She waved her hand in a shooing motion. “Now off with you. I am tired.” She smiled as he leaned down and kissed her cheeks. “Please give my regards to Lord Faramir.”

Éomer nodded. “I shall.” He squeezed Éowyn’s hand once more and then hurried out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Faramir’s evening nurse, an elderly woman with steel grey hair and a face creased by years of laughter, puttered around the room settling things for the evening. Old Gerdie, as she’d introduced herself, lit several candles around the room and added a few logs to the fire. Éomer had offered his assistance but she had waved him off with a smile and continued about her chores, chattering away all the while. It was with amusement and patience that he and Faramir sat, silently watching her progress; Éomer perched next to the bed in a wooden chair better suited to someone several inches shorter, and Faramir propped up against a ridiculous number of overstuffed pillows. 

With an air of satisfaction, Old Gerdie finally turned to them, tasks completed to her satisfaction. “There ye are, m’lords. It’s a nice fire, all set, and yer supper’s on the table.” She padded over to them and gestured to the food set out on the small, sturdy wooden table near the fire. “The bread ’n cheese ’n meat’r fer you, m’lord Éomer.” She gave him a stern look. “Be sure you eat up, now. Worryin’ is a nasty business, and you’ve had more’n yer share, what with Lady Éowyn and Lord Faramir both taken ill. Must keep up yer strength!” She turned her attention to Faramir, patting his hand, a fond, grandmotherly smile on her face. “The broth is fer Lord Faramir, should he be feelin’ up to eatin’ summat, so says the healer.” She gave one last look around the room then gave a small bend at the knees in a movement that would most likely have been a curtsey in someone many years younger. “Unless there’s summat else yer needin’ m’lords, I’ll be seein’ to my other patients.” She wagged a wrinkled finger at Faramir. “Doctor says not to be wearin’ yerself out Lord Faramir, so early to sleep.” She flashed them a wizened grin. “I’ll just show m’self out. Good e’en m’lords.” She gave them another attempt at a curtsey and shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Once she had gone, Éomer waited a full minute before he thrust himself out of the wretched chair and sat on the edge of Faramir’s bed, careful not to jostle him. He took Faramir’s hand in his and raised it to his lips, lightly brushing soft kisses against the battle hardened knuckles. “Are you hungry?”

Faramir’s eyes turned dark and the ghost of a wicked smile played across his lips. “Yes. Exceedingly. I might like to try the broth as well.”

Éomer laughed loudly and shook his head, trying not to think about how very much he would like to indulge the hunger burning in Faramir’s beautiful slate colored eyes. “None of that.” He leaned in and placed a chaste kiss to Faramir’s lips. “You must rest.” He sighed and pressed his forehead against Faramir’s. If Aragorn had been delayed a few minutes longer, or if there had been no kingsfoil… He felt a pricking at the back of his eyes and his throat grew thick with emotion. He took a breath and silenced the useless thoughts. Faramir had survived, and the healers were confident that in time he would fully recover. Gentle fingers caressed his cheek and slipped into his hair, and Éomer sighed, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. “If I had lost you…”

“I know, my love.” They sat in comfortable silence, finding solace in each other’s touch. “But you did not. I am here, and I am well.”

Éomer made a derisive sound. “You are not.” He took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. “But in time you will be, and for that I shall forever be in Aragorn’s debt.” For a few moments he leaned into Faramir’s touch, taking strength from the strong fingers caressing his temple and pushing through his hair. He found more comfort than he had thought possible from such simple gestures. It was with great reluctance he pushed himself upright, offering a warm smile. “Shall we try the food?” 

Faramir smiled and followed him up, placing a soft kiss against Éomer’s lips before sitting back, allowing his fingers to slip from the golden hair. “A sound course of action, since you will not entertain my alternative.” 

“It is a matter of health and propriety, not lack of desire.” He winked and stood, taking the few steps to the table to bring the steaming bowl of broth back to the bed. He sniffed tentatively, inhaling savory spices and roast fowl; a common cure-all found in most homes when someone fell ill. “It smells delicious.” He carefully spooned some of the broth, blew on it a bit and held it out to an amused Faramir. 

“I am quite able to feed myself.”

Éomer blushed but grinned. “Yes.” Neither moved.

“Yet you insist on feeding me?”

If anything, Éomer’s grin grew wider. “Yes.” Faramir sighed as if being ministered to were a chore, but the twinkle of mischief in his eye should have given fair warning. He leaned forward, lips slightly parted, and as the broth neared, Faramir slipped his tongue past his lips to caress the underside of the spoon, guiding it into his mouth. 

Desire slammed through Éomer with a force that took his breath away. He recalled intimately the wet heat of Faramir’s wicked mouth; the way his tongue had excited and teased until he was lust-addled and helpless. He exhaled shakely, remembering Faramir’s dark head bowed low, raven hair bathed in soft moonlight, warm lips wrapped exquisitely around him. 

Éomer slowly withdrew the spoon, carefully dipped it back into the broth, then held it out once more, eyes transfixed on Faramir’s beautiful lips. As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Faramir grinned lasciviously. With each proffered mouthful, Faramir defiled the spoon in ever more deliciously debauched ways until the bowl was empty and Éomer burned with desperate need. “You are achingly beautiful and utterly wicked.” His voice was rough and heavy with desire. Trying to relieve the strain against the laces of his pants, he huffed out a strangled laugh and adjusted his position. “Were you not not unwell, I would exact revenge.”

Faramir’s eyes sparkled as he leaned back against the pillows and held open his arms. “I am not so unwell that you need hold back.” 

“You _are_ , and we should _not_.” Yet the ache to kiss and touch Faramir until they were moaning and sweat-drenched, finding release in each other’s arms, was quickly overtaking his good sense. He rose and walked to the small table, trying to place some distance between himself and his ultimate temptation.

Faramir’s gaze raked over him possessively, full of heat and promise, stripping him bare with a glance. “Yes, we _should_.” His eyes sparkled in the firelight, adding power to his words. “It is _your_ touch I crave, Éomer; _your_ hands and lips I require to make me truly whole again.” He held out a hand. “Please, I swear to you, my love, I am well enough.”

Éomer groaned, knowing he should protest, but just as sure he would not. He could deny Faramir nothing. With a resigned sigh he placed the empty bowl and spoon on the table, then sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots, tossing them into the corner where his armor sat neatly stacked. Clad only in a soft linen shirt and trousers, he slipped into bed next to Faramir and gently wrapped him in his arms. “I have missed you, my heart.” Holding him again, feeling his body, solid and warm pressed against his own, felt right, safe, and utterly perfect. “But we should take care. You are barely out of danger, and I would not be the cause of your worsening.” 

Faramir paid him no heed as he slid a hand down his chest and across his abdomen. “Hush.” The word, whispered in soft admonishment against his lips, sent ripples of pleasure through him. “My need for you is considerable.” He inhaled sharply as Faramir’s hand slid lower to squeeze him gently. “And you desire me as well.”

“Yes, Béma help me, I do. Body and soul.” He took several deep breaths and tried to control himself. “Though it does not follow that I must act on those desires.” There was a distinct lack of conviction in his voice, and Faramir’s eyes sparkled with victory. Éomer groaned but could not hide his smile. “What has happened to the man who feared leaving his rangers alone in camp?”

Faramir stroked him through his clothing, eyes growing darker with each pass of his hand. “He fell in love with a deplorable influence and was corrupted.” 

Éomer managed a throaty chuckle, though breath was becoming scarce. “You _are_ an apt pupil. _Ooooohhhh_.” He dropped his head back against the wall with a thud, though he barely noticed. Faramir had worked open his laces and had him firmly in hand, skin to skin. It took grave focus to maintain his good intentions and not roll over Faramir to demonstrate precisely how desperately he ached to be with him. To do so would surely earn the healers’ disapproval. “ _Faramir_.”

“Mmm?” Faramir pressed his advantage, kissing along his neck and nuzzling behind his ear.

“ _Love…_ ” He gasped as Faramir nipped his earlobe, waves of pleasure crashing through him. 

Faramir’s voice was silky smooth in his ear. “I promise I am well.” Then he paused, seeming to consider the situation. “I _will_ acknowledge that a healer’s room in the middle of the Houses of Healing is not the most seemly place for all that I desire to do with and to you.” He sighed resignedly, shifting a bit in the tangled bed linens until they were face to face. 

It took several deep breaths and all the concentration he had not to whine at the loss of Faramir’s hand. It took several more before he could once again think. He reached out to gently stroke Faramir’s cheek. “Just so, my love. It pains me to agree, but it is for the best.”

Faramir looked up at him through his long dark lashes, and Éomer felt his heart flutter and his desire surge once more. “Will you stay? Please? At least allow me to slumber peacefully in your arms.”

There was nothing to do but nod and pull him close. His own dreams had long been filled with images of sleeping tangled in Faramir’s embrace, waking in his arms, and the threat of losing him was still too recent. He settled Faramir against his chest, both arms wrapped tightly around him. With eyes closed, he placed a soft kiss against Faramir’s temple then took several calming breaths. Feather light fingertips caressed down his chest. Éomer chuckled and gripped the wayward hand. “ _Faramir_.”

“ _Please, Éomer_.” There was an urgency in Faramir’s voice that struck a matching chord deep within him. “Only this, love. Allow me to touch you.” 

Éomer’s resolve crumbled to dust, and he released Faramir’s wrist. “Give me your word that, should you become unwell, need to stop for any reason, you will say so.”

Faramir nodded and kissed him softly. “Yes. I give you my word.” Even such modest contact fanned the flames of Éomer’s arousal. 

He trembled as Faramir’s warm hand slipped beneath his laces, gently pulling him free. The first light caress only fed his desires, and without further resistance he gave himself fully to the pleasure of Faramir’s deft fingers. It was all he could do to remember to breathe as Faramir continued to caress him, kiss him with tender passion, tongue teasing him hungrily. 

With trembling hands, he gripped the edge of Faramir’s nightshirt, pushed it higher until it caught under his arms, then let his hands wander over Faramir’s smooth, pale skin. “I have missed you. I have missed your touch, your lips, the feel of you.” Éomer moaned softly against Faramir’s mouth as he caressed well defined muscles along his chest and abdomen, seeking the ridges of his hips, firmly gripping the muscles of his ass. “Would that circumstances were different.” He kissed Faramir hard, urgently, as he tilted his hips closer, wrapped his large fist around them both and let out a shuddering breath. “I would never let you go.” Faramir moaned raggedly into Éomer’s mouth; a sound so sweet and debauched it almost ended him. 

“I am yours, Éomer, ever yours, as you are mine. For I claim all of you, as you surely have claimed me.” Faramir gripped his hips possessively, fingers digging almost painfully into the muscles, and thrust faster. 

In direct opposition to his naturally careful nature, there was a fierce beauty to Faramir’s passion. It was wild and needy, demanding in its urgency. Breathless commands were followed by desperate whispers; soft pleas by passionate kisses; his touch was equal parts imperious and pliant and almost too perfect to bear. 

A soft gasp against his lips was the only warning he had before Faramir’s body went rigid against him, fingers clenching his arms in an iron grip, mouth open in a silent wail of pleasure. He felt Faramir shudder, hips bucking wildly into his fist, and a wet warmth coated his hand. 

Éomer moaned deeply, thrust into his now slick fist, pleasure mounting rapidly, leaving a deep ache in his body as his muscles coiled in anticipation. He thrust again, then again, hovering at the precipice for one very long breath, then hurled over the edge, crashing into his own release with body wracking force.

He had no idea how long they lay there gasping for breath, tangled limbs and sweat drenched bodies drifting in euphoric exhaustion. Soft kisses and gentle smiles followed, making his chest hurt in delightful ways. _I am his, and he is mine._ The certainty filled him with indescribable joy. If they survived what was to come, and if Faramir would have him, he would gladly build a life with this man. 

A quiet laugh bubbled in his chest as he glanced down to find Faramir looking thoroughly exhausted but exceedingly pleased with himself. Éomer ran a finger across his cheek and along his jaw, captivated once again by his beauty. “Rest, love. I will take care of you.” 

He reluctantly untangled himself from Faramir, rose, and found clean cloths and a bowl of fresh water. With careful tenderness he bathed away the traces of their lovemaking, peppering each newly washed inch of skin with feather-light kisses. He cleansed himself next, then set the cloths in the bowl by the door, snuffed out the candles and settled back in bed. 

Within minutes Éomer felt Faramir relax against him, heard his soft, even breaths. He was tired. They both were, and with the events of the day he should have easily followed Faramir into sleep, but unbidden, his mind turned to thoughts of their uncertain future. 

He loved Faramir with a strength he never could have imagined. He wanted to spend their lives together. But what of Éowyn? What of her unhappiness, her lack of purpose, so clearly seen by Aragorn and Gandalf? How had he missed it? What could he do to relieve it? He owed her better. And did he not also owe the people of Rohan? What of his responsibilities of leadership, duty, heirs? How would any of that be possible if he chose a life with Faramir? 

With determination he turned away from such thoughts and tried to quiet his mind. His worries mattered little in the unpredictability of the battle to come. Many would not survive, and for those that did, life might be utterly different than the one they now knew.

He felt Faramir stir against him, then settle more comfortably with a soft sigh. As he held Faramir close, a calmness filled him, soothing his troubled thoughts. Éowyn and Faramir would be with him, steadfast, constant, unwavering. If he survived the coming battle, they would find a way forward together. There would be answers, he was certain. He leaned down and kissed Faramir’s temple. “You _are_ mine, Faramir. Nothing will change that, and for as long as I draw breath, I willingly give myself to you.” Faramir mumbled a drowsy hum of acquiescence and settled closer. It was not long before Éomer followed him into slumber.


End file.
